The hours pass very slowly. This morning, for a couple of hours, we had to return to the trenches, to clear away the earth and make them deeper, and so counteract the ravages of the rain.
Back in Bucy, each of us settles down in a corner with a book or newspaper. During the past few days we have resumed a liking for printed characters. People may send us books, no matter on what subject, if only they will help to pass the time. Whatever takes the poor soldier out of a purely animal life to some extent is welcome.
Another shower of projectiles on Bucy. The windows shake and the little girl begins to cry. Madame Achain sighs.
"Do the savages want to demolish our house?"
Suddenly there is a lull. Why does a bombardment begin? Why does it stop? A mystery: the designs of gunners are inscrutable.
Girard, a hospital attendant, pays us a return visit. We thank him for his kind intentions.
"Oh, it's nothing at all," he says.
Is Bucy to become a society rendez-vous? Girard, who just misses falling as he seats himself on a tottering chair, remarks cheerfully—
"What nice quarters you have here!"
Madame Achain is flattered; so are we.